Power Play
by chezchuckles
Summary: a co-authored fic by jstar1382 and chezchuckles. takes place after 'Always Buy Retail.'
1. Chapter 1

**Power Play**

* * *

a co-authored fic by jstar1382 and chezchuckles

takes place after 'Always Buy Retail'

* * *

Hours after a certain writer save her life, Kate Beckett feels his eyes on her, staring, watching. He's done that a lot lately, claiming it's for research, but she suspects otherwise. Her skin feels warm, flushed under his careful observation, and she can't help but turn and offer him a smile.

An invitation.

It's flirting, and she knows it, but after surviving a shootout with a former member of the Nigerian secret police, she deserves to have a little fun. And Rick 'Kitten' Castle would be fun.

As _her_ conquest.

A toy to play with for the night. No strings. No attachments. Just to celebrate the thrill of being alive. And then in the morning, everything goes back to the way it was. The way it always has been with him. A little teasing, a lot of questioning, mostly annoying.

Kate dips her lashes and draws her lip between her teeth. She knows he likes it, the tongue and teeth thing, without a doubt. She's seen his eyes darken, his gaze on her mouth and not on the murder board when they ought to be focused on the case. An oral fixation, so to speak.

Her ploy works.

He begins to saunter towards her with his glass of borrowed champagne in hand. She only has to say a few words, her voice low, throaty, and it's all too easy. They sink right into their usual banter, that near-constant flirtation. She compliments him, mentions he probably saved her life, boosts his ego a bit, lures him another step closer.

His voice grows deep, seductive; he's nearly leaning in. He says _she_ owes _him_ , but he doesn't know just how wrong he'll be, how much she'll make him eat his words. After tonight, he'll be begging for more, and she likes holding that knowledge over his head, dangling herself as bait.

Though this time she won't be snatching it away.

She plays along, acts offended by the thought of a debt even as she meets him in the middle of the hallway. He's close, and then too close, and then he's crowding her to the wall. She hides her gasp at the feel of his body pressed against hers.

"You know what I really, _really_ want you to do?" he husks. His eyes flick down to her mouth and she swears he's going to kiss her. She feels his free hand graze against her waist, fingers gripping her hip.

She waits for it, barely daring to breathe, and somehow she finds herself swaying forward, under _his_ spell. But that's not right. This is supposed to be _her_ game.

His lips almost touch her ear. "Never ever call me kitten."

She startles, the spell broken. _Kitten?_

He moves to pull away, smug, but she hooks a finger in his belt loop, yanks him closer. He's not getting away with that, with turning the tables on her. She can't let this be his to control.

She dusts her lips against his jaw, whispers a secret in his ear. "When you're in my bed tonight, _kitten_ , I'll call you whatever I like."

She nips at his earlobe with her teeth. His breath stutters.

She shoves him back, sees all his sly cleverness wiped from his face. Beckett gestures towards the stairwell exit, in case her intentions weren't clear.

He arches his eyebrow in question. All she offers is a jerk of her head before turning and walking away.

She knows he's following.

(...)

She's walking away.

He's following of course; he'd have to be stupid not to follow a woman as hot and mysterious as Detective Beckett, but he can't believe she invited him over.

Did she invite him over? She said _in my bed tonight_ which sounds like an invitation, which sounds like a naughty dominatrix is lurking somewhere beneath that young badass exterior, but he can't believe it.

She also called him kitten. Which might have been her way of teasing him still more.

It would be a vicious joke though.

So he follows. He follows because he has to see this through to the end, whatever that might be. He follows because he's not throwing away what might be his only opportunity to get in her pants.

Her bed. 'Getting in her bed' sounds better than getting in her pants.

But damn if that's all he can think about right now: getting in her pants.

What color are her panties?

By the time he reaches the bottom floor of the building, Castle is panting with the exertion of every flight of stairs (and not a little excess of arousal). She turns on him suddenly and presses him back against the wall with a finger. "Find a cab. I'll meet you on the north side."

He blinks. "North side?"

"I have to wrap up here," she says, narrowing her eyes. "You know that."

"Yes. No, I know. I do know. North side. Cab. Got it."

He darts away before she can recall him, before she can recall _herself_ \- her own presence of mind. Castle hits the front doors at a run, slides around the police officers still coming inside. It's a matter of dodging sawhorses and crime scene tape, the medical examiner's van and Internal Affairs (damn, she'll have to make a statement to them, have to be on mandatory leave for an officer involved shooting; is that why she invited him over, to give her something to do in her downtime?)

(Does he really care?)

(No.)

When he finds a quiet spot - on the north side of the apartment building, just as she said - he pulls out his phone to call for a cab pick-up. His hands are clammy. He's having trouble believing any of this is real. All of his usual swag and confidence have deserted him.

Is this a 'at least we're alive' fuck? It feels in close kinship to a pity fuck, which makes his stomach plunge to his shoes. He doesn't want pity. Or for her to be feeling pitiful, if that's what this is. But no, he saw a lot of power on her face, felt a lot of electricity in the air between them.

But definitely a one-off, something that will never happen again and shouldn't be happening in the first place.

If he didn't save her life. If she didn't almost die a few hours ago. If he was slower knocking her to the ground. If he never saw the man in time.

If, if, if.

Neither of them would be alive to want each other at all.

Does she want him, or does she just want?

Castle has almost talked himself out of it (talked himself out of _sex with Beckett, how is he such a loser right now?_ ) when the bright flare and loud bloop of a police siren cracks his introspection.

Why is he thinking so much? He is dying to get in her pants. She's offering a wild (and probably dangerous) night. And ever since her smirking _you have no idea_ , he's been coming up with every possible idea under the sun - and quite a lot of ideas that aren't.

Possible, that is.

Like sex in space a la James Bond's Moonraker.

Like making her come back to back to back until she begs him to stop.

Like worshiping at her body as she whispers beautiful love into the darkness of their bedroom.

Which are all totally impossible, completely ridiculous, highly improbable, pathetically romantic (maybe someday?) ideas.

The cab request goes through.

Now he has to wait.

He's distinctly uncomfortable, and he has to adjust his pants, button his blazer.

This is the north side, right?

(...)


	2. Chapter 2

**Power Play**

* * *

He's at on the north side of the apartment building leaning against a cab.

She's shocked that he listened. Apparently he can follow directions when there's a promise of sex - did she promise? No, she alluded to it, _heavily_.

With only a smirk she slinks around him and opens the door, sliding across the worn vinyl seat. "You coming, Castle?"

His jaw drops for a second before scrambling in next to her. She's never seen this side of him, all nervous and unsure. It's nice to know that she wields this much power over his usual playboy charm. She leans forward, gives the cabbie her address and settles next to Castle. He clears his throat and it's like a switch is flipped, his confidence returning at her closeness.

"Where are we going?" he asks, moving a fraction closer, but still being the perfect gentleman. That's not what she wants tonight - tonight she doesn't want to play it safe. She doesn't want the gentleman, she wants the bad boy.

"My apartment."

For all the confidence he's trying to feign, she still sees him squirm ever so slightly. It's reassuring to know that even though this is supposed to be his norm, not hers, he's the one uncomfortable with it. He's knocked off his game.

Maybe she's crazy to be doing this. Crazy _and_ self-sabotaging. Here she is in a cab with Rick Castle, pursuing him. Pursuing sex with him. Her grief counselor would be shaking her head, but Beckett ruthlessly shoves the old bitch - and the doubt - aside.

She wants this - _him_. She actually wants Rick Castle. She deserves a little fun for a change. She is so damn tired of being so careful, of going by the book and not rocking the boat. Isn't that why her mother's case is still unsolved? There's been too much of shutting up and sitting down.

"Your apartment." He crowds closer and leans down to whisper in her ear. "Are you sure about this? You want me that far inside your life Detective Beckett?"

She flashes him a smile and places her hand on his thigh, way higher than just friends, and then she moves it near the point of indecent. "Oh, I definitely want you that far _inside_ , Rick." Looking up through her fluttering eyelashes, she makes sure to emphasize his first name, letting the consonant sound pop off her tongue.

It works. His answering grin is anything but innocent as his lips return near her ear, growling. "I can't wait to make you scream."

(...)

She should not be so hot. Or so devastating with that hand _and_ that mouth - and all she's doing is talking.

Hell.

"A crime," he murmurs. "To be so wicked-"

"Wicked," she scoffs. Her fingers tease a line so high on his thigh that his pants are entirely uncomfortable. He twitches when she laughs. "If this is wicked, Rick Castle, you have far less experience than I thought."

Castle narrows his eyes at her and drops a heavy hand over hers, and in short order presses her palm exactly where he wants it. Where it's unmistakeable.

Her own brown depths glint with gold, a swirl of colors he never knew were there. She doesn't look away, doesn't pull away, only curls her fingers around him until his nostrils flare.

He's not going to win this game. But oh, hell, does he love playing it.

She scratches lightly with her nails and he sees stars, has to slam his eyes shut and tip his head back in the seat. He has this sick dizzy sensation from the taxi's forward movement and her hand's upward climb, and he can do nothing at all to stop either.

"Should I take it easy on you, kitten?"

He can't even protest. She smells like spring, cool and blooming, and his head is throbbing in time with his heart - and other parts of him.

"Poor thing," she whispers, stroking lightly over him and down to his knee. She squeezes sharply. "Good for you - we're here, Rick. Open your eyes and try to regain your wits for the walk up."

"I can't do another flight of stairs like this," he croaks, his lashes fluttering. He turns his head on the seat and gives her his best pitiful face. "Don't make me."

"I thought you had such legendary stamina."

There's a heartbeat where her words, her teasing, ring through the cab. And then Castle breaks first, smiling so widely that the whole game falls apart around him. She's smirking, eyebrow lifted, and he gives her a bobbing head nod. "Round one goes to Beckett." She begins sliding out of the cab to the sidewalk and he leans forward. "And as loser of the first round-" He produces his wallet and hands the driver a one hundred dollar bill through the plastic divider. "Keep the change. I'm having the best day of my life."

The driver makes a frantic motion, evidently not understanding the exchange, though Castle tries to wave him off. Beckett reaches back for his shirt and fists the material, dragging him out. "If you think flashing your money around is supposed to impress me - or make up for some-" her eyes dip down "-lack, then you're sadly mistaken."

He lifts both hands in surrender. "Don't get huffy. That wasn't round two; I was simply paying the man. And you felt for yourself there's no _lack,_ Detective. I just had your hand on me in a New York taxi cab - which is practically public transportation - which is definitely an item on my bucket list. I meant every word. You've already made my day."

Her harsh expression doesn't exactly soften, but the irritation swiftly transitions to predation, acceptance inherent in the narrowing of her eyes and the flash of assessment. She smooths her hand against his shirt, easing the wrinkles, and then she turns and heads for the front door of her apartment building.

She knows he'll follow of course, but even his following can't detract from the fact that he knows she's _pleased_ by his statement.

Round two just wound up in his favor.

It's on.

(...)

She's not sure why she's making him take the stairs and not the elevator, but it's a small point of pride that she can get him to jump through any additional hoop she wants just for a shot at getting inside. Her apartment. Her pants. All of that. And there is absolutely no way he would go this far for anyone else.

It's empowering.

The idea that she's special spreads warmth to her cheeks as the heat of his body closes in, crowding her in the stairwell.

Castle's hands grab at her hips, fingers claiming, pulling her flush against him, her back to his front.

"Why the theatrics, Detective? The elevator would've been faster," he whispers, his breath tickling against the exposed skin on her neck.

"Good things _come_ to those that wait." Purring in response, she grinds her ass back into him. "I may need to teach you some patience."

"Oh, I can be patient. I plan to take my time with you." The deep growl of his voice sends an electric current racing down her spine. She's done for; her own patience goes up in flames. They've been playing the game so long now that it's all foreplay - and she's desperate for the real thing.

Skin on skin, hard and fast. She doesn't think she can handle slow. Maybe after and there _will be_ an after. Once will not be enough to ease the need coiling tight in her body. She wants him now, against the nearest flat surface, but she'll have to wait long enough to preserve her dignity and make it through her apartment doors.

Then all bets are off.

Down the hall and finally outside her door, both of them with flushed skin and blown pupils, she dismisses her pride and throws off her reserve - she can't hold back; she needs his body against hers. Kate pushes him hard against the door, pressing insistently, the knob no doubt digging into his spine. He doesn't seem to mind as his hands reach for her waist, pulling her close and rolling his hips against hers right out here in the hallway.

A needy moan escapes her lips and a pleased smirk forms on his, cocky bastard.

That dry hump may have caught her temporarily off guard, but she's still in charge. Stepping on her tiptoes, she braces herself on the doorframe as she finally finds his mouth, wipes the dominance from his expression with her kiss.

Breathing heavily, she reaches between them and brushes her hand along his zipper, teasing.

"Time to test your stamina, Mr. Castle."

(...)


	3. Chapter 3

**Power Play**

* * *

 **M** rated

* * *

Richard Castle is more than willing to accept the terms of his surrender. Or hers. Hard to tell who is doing the surrendering when she makes those needy noises into his mouth, when his blood throbs in his veins so powerfully he can barely make his hands work.

But once inside her apartment, he's the one who takes the keys from her fingers and drops them to the hall table beside her answering machine. She doesn't seem to like that - she doesn't seem to like it at all when he asserts himself. He's not surprised when, in a kind of retaliation, she launches herself at him, slams him back into her now-closed door even while he's still angling for a better look at her apartment.

Her hands take over, digging his blue dress shirt from his jeans and instantly diving for his belt. He gasps - her fingers are cold, her touch isn't gentle - but his eyes zero in on her face, framed by those short spiky strands and the too heavy eyeliner that are supposed to make her look fierce.

More fierce than she really is, he thinks. He's seen the wound back there, how tragedy dwells in her, and it fascinates him even now, with her hands making short work of his pants.

He wants to slow this down, peel the clothes from her body until her soul is just as naked. But she'll never let him that close, will she?

Beckett yanks the belt from his jeans, the leather whipping from the belt loops, and she drops it to the floor. It falls heavily, a thunk in the hard-breathing silence, and her eyes flash with triumph.

"Have it your way," he murmurs, ceding his territory. "But next is mine."

She drags his zipper down. "Oh, you'll get yours, Mr. Castle-"

He snags her by the wrist, just enough force to make her pause. "It's Rick. Kate." He dips his head and lightly kisses the corner of her smirking, near-snarling mouth. "After I've had my way with you, we'll both learn a little compromise."

For a heartbeat, she doesn't shove him away. She doesn't move at all. They're both suspended, her fingers clawed in his grip, her other hand already past his fly, his lips hovering near her lips.

"I never compromise," she whispers.

A warning bell goes off somewhere, a car alarm or a security panel or just the frantic ringing in his ears of his own madly thumping heartbeat. She lets out a hot breath against his lips, leans back with narrowed eyes.

He's done it now. Sabotaged them before there's even a them.

Her eyes are too dark, he can't read a thing.

And then her fingers curl in the waistband of his boxers and tug. He comes stumbling forward, his gratefulness so pathetically out of proportion to the lust that he wraps his arms around her and catches her up, pins her arms, her entire body to his.

Oh, he's the one surrendering alright. She can have anything, everything, if only she claims what's already hers.

"Castle," she purrs at his ear, rubbing herself against him. "My way or no way at all."

"Yours, yours," he croaks. "Where's your damn bed?"

"What happened to patience?"

He grabs her by the neck and forces his mouth down to hers, entirely finished with patience. She cries out at his lips; her teeth become vicious. His grip tightens, the spiked ends of her hair against the back of his hand, and he nudges her backward, feet shuffling and hips bumping.

"Other - other way," she gasps, a fist in his boxers - perilously close - and pushing _him_ backward. He knocks into the end table and the keys slide off, hit the floor, but she's already shoving on him too much to stop. "Through there. Stop gawking, Castle, it's just an apartment."

"Your apartment," he sputters, eyes darting to the kitchen with its stainless steel, the comfy looking couch, the-

"Bedroom," she insists, and hell yes, he'd rather catalog every inch of her private space instead.

They fumble over the threshold and the backs of his legs hit the mattress and suddenly they stop. Her chest is heaving with every ragged breath, her shirt rucked up under her bra. Her hair is wild and angry around her face, but her lips are brightly red, and one of those dark lines of eyeliner is smeared at the corner of her right eye.

She reaches out and hooks two fingers at the top of his dress shirt, just where it gaps, where he has to leave the button undone so it won't be too tight and pull across his shoulders. Her eyes are on his throat, and the fast swallow he takes, and then she jerks her hand down.

Buttons rip, dangle on their threads. Her head cocks to one side.

"I always thought they'd pop off, scatter around the room, make that sound as they rolled across the wood floors."

He's going to die, isn't he? She's going to kill him.

"I better not continue to be so disappointed," she sighs. And then her lips curl, and he can't tell whether it's a smile or just mere calculation. "You won't disappoint me, Rick, will you?"

"Hell, no." And he goes for her pants.

(...)

She watches his eyes narrow as she removes his shirt completely and it flutters to the floor. He's standing there in only his boxers and yet he's looking at her like he's the predator and she's the prey. He's dangerous like this, she realizes, dark eyes, swollen lips, mussed hair, a different side to the man that graces the back of her favorite novels.

So fucking hot.

Bringing him home may have been a momentary lapse in judgement, but she's not regretting it one bit. It's been way too long and she knows he'll make it good for her.

Hell, he already has.

Her eyes slip shut as his lips work down the column of her throat, starting with feathering kisses which soon turn into the slide of his tongue, a nip at her skin. With little effort, he's found that spot below her earlobe that causes a faint flutter in her blood.

He's going to ruin her for anyone else, anything. Ever.

She's not going down without a fight.

He tries to lay her back on the bed, but she shakes her head, wanting… she has no idea. Only that so much of her wants.

She pulls her lip between her teeth, and his eyes follow. A kind of growl from his throat. "Do you have any idea what that does to me? How many dirty things I imagine you doing with your mouth?"

"If this," she says, bringing her hand against him through his boxers, "is any indication, I'm getting an idea. And so the question is, how many dirty things can I do to you, Rick?"

His name is barely past her lips before she's sinking to her knees. Her fingers toy with the waistband of his boxers, lifting her gaze to him to be assured of her effect. His face is roiling with emotion, all of it surfacing in his eyes, and she slides his boxers down his thighs.

"Kate…" He sits down hard on the edge of the bed, staring at her, his hands hovering near her head but not touching.

She looks up at him from between his knees, her eyes hooded with the heaviness of her own arousal, the power in her hands. Castle slams his eyes shut, but he's unable to suppress a groan when she leans forward.

"Look alive, Castle. I'm not done with you yet…"

And then her mouth is on him.

(...)


	4. Chapter 4

**Power Play**

* * *

 **M** rated

* * *

It takes everything in him not to hang onto her, not to frame that devastating mouth with both hands and bury himself in her throat.

To keep from being completely unmanned, he falls back to the mattress and stares up at the ceiling, sucking down ragged breaths that don't help. Nothing helps. Her mouth-

She hums and her fingers play and he's done for.

"Kate!" His hand spasms around her upper arm, too hard, he knows; he knows it's too hard, but so is everything else and this is not how this ends. "No more, no-"

Her mouth is wet and hot as she comes off him; he whimpers and can't help catching the side of her face, practically leading her up to him. She crawls onto the bed, over him on all fours, her hair in perfect disarray around those swollen red lips, her eyes wandering over his face.

He tries to clear his throat. "You keep going like that and I really am going to disappoint."

"What's the matter, Castle, can't-"

Can't is right. Before she can finish, he lunges upward and captures her mouth with his, turns her in a roll, and bears her back down to the mattress. She writhes under him, and his taste on her tongue is intoxicating.

Dangerous.

He angles her mouth to his, deeper, a penetration so suggestive she moans and bites his tongue. Her body rocks upward into his. He drags a hand down her body, shifts her hip, adjusts her knee higher, kneads her thigh until she catches a rhythm. A slow grind against him that sets his teeth on edge and makes everything sharper, tighter.

He finds the cup of her bra and squeezes, flesh yielding to his fingers. She bucks under him at that and he does it again, rooting inside the material for hot skin. Beckett shudders and presses up, her lips parted and luscious, like bitten fruit, and he wants to taste their juice-

"Stop thinking pretty words. Start doing." She arches her back in emphasis, and he realizes only then that she's giving him enough room to pop the clasp of her bra.

"Good thinking," he says gruffly, his manual dexterity somehow out the window. Makes doing that much harder.

She chuckles, gets a hand under her and does it for him, flings her bra off the side of the bed. He lifts on an elbow and smooths a hand down her torso, between her breasts, drinking in the sight of her, milk and alabaster and marble and-

"What a sap," she mutters, hooking her arm around his neck and yanking him down.

He grunts and collapses, the feel of her chest against his shorting out his brain. His mouth searches for hers eagerly without finding, roaming long swathes of warm pink skin. Her breasts are fine and carefully sculpted; she feels like a live model in his hands, under his body, artistic beauty come to life, breathing and passionate.

Muse.

She scrapes her nails down his back at the work of his teeth and he really likes that, does it again to hear her cry out.

He drags his mouth down her ribs to her belly, loving the ripple of her skin as he approaches sensitive places, loving the clutch of her fingers in his hair and at his shoulder, gripping and kneading like a cat.

She purrs when his lips ghost her inside thigh.

He grins and lifts his head, waits for her haze to clear, for her to see him.

She hisses, teeth flashing.

He tucks a finger into her panties, scratches lightly. "Now who's the kitten?"

Her eyes turn dark, flipping from royal gold to eternal night just like that. Her leg hooks at the back of his thigh, her heel digging into his ass.

"Still you," she growls.

He tugs down her panties and sets to proving her wrong.

(...)

She's lying naked in her bed and Castle is staring at her like she's the most extraordinary being on the planet. Not exactly how she thought her day would end up, but as she watches him lower his mouth to kiss her inner thigh, she can't think anymore anyway.

His breath is hot against her skin and when he turns his head and drags the flat of his tongue over her, her vision whites out.

"Fuck," she gasps and he chuckles against her. The hum of his lips and scratch of his five o'clock shadow are bringing her to the edge way too fast, embarrassingly so.

Her hips arch off of the mattress and he grips her waist, pressing her against the sheets, while his other hand dusts along her outer thigh with maddening touches. All the while his mouth continues to undo her.

This was not her plan and while she's so damn close, she doesn't want to give him the smug satisfaction of getting her off before she truly shows him who's in charge. Her skin is buzzing, alive under his touch. He has to stop before she's too far gone.

Kate combs her fingers through his hair and pulls him away, nudging him back with the ball of her foot against his right shoulder. Her body flutters in protest and he looks at her with the same confusion.

"I wasn't finished with you." He tries to reach for her, pull her back, but she objects, her toes digging into his chest and shoving him away.

"No, but you were close," she breathes.

"Then let me -" He tries to lean back down, but before he can she rolls her body over and sinks back to sit on her feet. She can't keep her distance for long, practically lunging forward to lace her hands behind his neck and pulling his mouth to hers.

"Later," she growls against his lips, the tart taste of her arousal on his tongue causing her knees to go weak. She's learned his mouth can do such wicked things - and her body is craving more.

"There'll be a later?" He smirks and moves away to press that smugness to her jaw, nipping a path down her neck.

"If you're good," she teases, backing away to look at him. To regain her equilibrium, her breath.

He turns and scoots back to prop himself up against her headboard. "Oh, I can be good. Scout's honor." Castle flashes her a salute.

She shakes her head and crawls toward him before straddling his lap.

His eyes are on hers, a darker shade of blue as they travel down her body, heating her skin, almost memorizing. It's too much.

Just fun. No feelings.

Bracing a hand on his shoulders, she teases them both, aligning their bodies. "Really? You can be good? Prove it."

With a slow twist of her hips, she sinks down.

(...)

She groans and her throat works, lashes like two dark sickle moons against her cheeks. Her breath comes in a ragged effort and she stares at him. "Turns - out-" She's all gasps now, and he grits his teeth to endure through the hard rhythm she's set for them. "Turns out - you really - are good."

"You bet I am," he growls, gripping her hips that much harder. She moans, and he knows it's half put upon, for his benefit, like a show, but he can also see how it works her up too, how she falls into the role.

He loosens one hand and palms her lower back, adjusting her downward angle just enough to have her moan drop out, deepen.

"There we go," he says at her ear. He sucks lightly at the skin and she shivers. "That's it, Beckett. Just like that."

"Talk too much," she tries. But nonchalant has abandoned her entirely - and he likes it. Loves it. She's demanding and aggressive, but those are layers of armor around this passionate, overwhelmed-

Oh, _hell_. And then she does that with her hips. Her muscles contracting around him like Kegel exercises and he's lost his whole train of thought.

What thought?

She's glorious. Her hair is sweat-damp and beginning to wave around her face, her eyes light up with green spark, and her fingers knead his chest and shoulders as if she can't stop touching him.

She can't stop touching him.

She comes up on her knees and leans into it, and now he can feel the urge building inside her, the insistence, and he does his best to help her along. His hand between them, the other arm bracing her spine as he grips her neck, and she throws herself on him.

He finds her, swollen, hot, and she cries out.

He thrusts upwards; she stiffens. Her jaw drops. Her eyes catch his.

And then she's gone.

But not without inviting him over the edge. His rhythm turns sloppy, rushed, his body aching to follow, and then he does, release like a sudden summer storm, leaving them both drenched.

(...)

She feels dizzy.

Her body is a live wire above his, nearly suctioned to his skin with the fine layer of sweat that covers them both. She can feel her muscles still fluttering from his soft caresses along her side, every touch heightened, and she's in no control of her responses.

That was the most intense release she's ever experienced. Already she fears that she's becoming an addict craving her next fix even while she's still with him. She was an idiot to think that once would be enough.

Idiot to think she was in control.

He was, and still is.

Her lips ghost the taut cord at his neck, her breathing choppy and heart erratic. She can't think, can't find her voice to say anything that isn't completely cliche. So she waits as her fingers still clench at his back and her face stays hidden.

"That was - wow," he gasps, turning his head so his kiss grazes her temple. His lack of eloquence eases her nerves; he's the writer and he's been rendered basically speechless. And a little clumsy too.

"Yeah," she sighs.

She doesn't have words either. There's being sexually compatible with another person and then there's what they just did. They were at an entirely different level.

Epic.

She slips off of him. Her body immediately mourns the loss as she sinks down to the mattress, falling against her pillow, trying to catch her breath. He eases down on the pillow next to hers and turns to smudge a kiss on her shoulder. She's somehow surprised when his hands reach for her, pulling her into the cove of his chest, skating a touch along her waist.

Why is she surprised he's not letting go?

He chuckles. "You were right, that day after our first case - I had no idea."

She shakes her head. "Neither did I, but I'll gladly be your conquest again sometime." She smirks, her lips curling against his expanse of skin.

"My conquest? I disagree, Beckett. I was most definitely yours."

Her heart flutters at his words. They're both a mess about this, and that alone brings her peace of mind.

She just had sex with Richard Castle and she's not even sorry about it.

(...)


	5. Chapter 5

**Power Play**

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a co-authored fic by jstar1382 and chezchuckles

* * *

It's been six weeks and Castle feels like he's waiting for the other shoe to drop. The sword to fall.

But she keeps showing up.

First was that evening, rising above him in her bed for round three, and then the next morning because he slept over at her half-unspoken request. (It was more of a slurred _stay, more_ but he took it and ran with it.) And since then it's been Beckett sneaking into his loft or showing up early for a body drop for an entirely different kind of body drop. At Remy's, Beckett has kissed him crazy in the back hall by the bathrooms, and in Central Park, she directed him away from the crime scene to feel him up before getting down to business.

She doesn't spend the night, but when they're at her place, she asks him to stay a little longer, another hour, a little longer, and he gets the idea that the times when she finally makes him leave are more of a respect for his fatherhood than a real urge for solitude on her part.

But it can't be this easy, can it?

Sex with Detective Beckett is addictive and hot and unexpected every single time. He never wants to stop.

But he also wants things she's patently unwilling to give. He wants her to spend the night. He wants to kiss her in the precinct instead of having to check the urge. He wants to be proud of her and not care who sees it. He wants to tell people she has this cute little hitch to her voice when she's so tired she can't get out of bed in the morning and she calls his name pathetically for her coffee.

No, he wouldn't really tell anyone that. But he wants to not feel so ashamed for dwelling on that little hitch to her voice; he wants to not chastise himself for getting in too deep when his heart melts at the way she says his name in unguarded moments.

She doesn't seem to want to talk about any of it.

So tonight it is. Put up or shut up. He's asking her out on a date.

Has to be done. This can't go on.

His hands are so shaky he can barely ring her apartment, and when the buzzer goes off to let him up, he takes the stairs in some kind of superstitious hope in magical beginnings. She made him take the stairs to earn her favor (her bed), and maybe the stairs will once again prove something.

She's already at her front door, and it's wide open, when he manages the last flight and the long walk down the hall. She's half out of the door, looking for him, when he approaches with the roses behind his back.

She laughs, cocking her head. "What are you doing, Castle? Left the door open thinking you'd be right up." She lifts an eyebrow, gestures. He can see the red and black lace of her bra under the very thin white t-shirt. "Well, come on. I don't want to waste a second."

He doesn't go inside. He thrusts the flowers forward and clears his throat. "I don't either."

"Castle," she says, averting her eyes from the roses. "What's going on."

"I don't want to waste another second," he says, somehow dredging up the courage. "Kate. These are for you."

If he holds out his offering long enough, she'll have to take it.

She eyes the flowers, and then she studies him, but she does carefully unthread the bouquet of roses from his hand. Twelve long-stemmed red roses. He didn't want to overwhelm her by buying out the florist's entire stock.

That's tomorrow. If he gets tomorrow.

"Kate," he says softly. Now she's looking him up and down, using her detective skills to note his suit, the silk tie, his nervous hands. Her mouth slowly opens, but he rushes into the void. "Will you go out with me tonight?"

(...)

Kate falters, all words lost on her tongue.

Castle is standing there with this nervous look on his face, more nervous than she's ever seen him, and by now she's definitely seen a lot.

(Though the look on his face when they're lying together completely blissed out, that's her favorite. That's the side of him that she hates to see disappear when their bodies are spent for the night and he has to leave her.)

This version of Castle confuses her.

She doesn't understand this version, showing up with flowers and nerves and his heart on his sleeve. The beauty of their arrangement has always been - no feelings, just fun.

However, it's been harder to convince herself of that these days.

What started as a carefree one time thing has turned habitual. She tried to keep her heart closed off, protecting it from the playboy womanizer that he was supposed to be, but with each touch of his skin against hers, she fell for him.

But not once did she allow herself to think he was falling for her too. Maybe she tried to convince herself that he couldn't, that it didn't work like that in his world. But the man that's standing before her - it's impossible to fool herself anymore.

"Cas-Castle," she breathes, the floral notes from the roses invading her senses, reminding her that he's still standing in her hall, the color draining from his cheeks. The synapses in her brain have shut down, so she does the only thing she can.

She reaches for his tie, pulling him flush against her body, and she presses her lips to his mouth.

This kiss isn't a power play, it's not an act of dominance. It's filled simply with gratitude and hope - and edging toward love.

"Is that a no?" He chuckles, his mouth barely leaving hers, his voice trapped between them.

She shakes her head and she pulls away to flash him a shy smile, to really see him, this different man, this nervous and alluring and lovely man. And then she leans forward again to find his ear.

"No, it's _I thought you'd never ask_ ," she purrs. "Kitten."

(...)


End file.
